


For Your Consideration

by Borath, White Aster (white_aster)



Series: Rise and Fall and Rise Again (Ex-Decepticon!Jazz!verse) [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Desk Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Robots, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borath/pseuds/Borath, https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz was used to change. One couldn't be complacent in Kaon. He was used to listening for the signs, watching for the change in the wind as the seekers said. Now...now was the time to double down and make sure he was securely on the winning team.</p><p>(Early-war AU, Decepticon!Jazz)  Co-written with Borath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Consideration

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a collaborative RP between White Aster and Borath. We're kinda fond of it even though the point of view wanders every few paragraphs, so we've left it largely as-is.

**Authors' Notes:** This story was written as a collaborative RP between White Aster and Borath. We're kinda fond of it even though the point of view wanders every few paragraphs, so we've left it largely as-is.

 **WARNINGS:** Size kink, rough sex, sticky sex, light painplay, toys, power dynamics of the fragging-your-commander variety, incorrigible!Jazz, fluids everywhere, sex all over a new office, everything totally consensual and a good time had by all. Also, as mentioned, wandering POV.

* * *

The Nemesis was huge.

Jazz had heard about it, of course. What might have been a rumor of activity, a hint of purpose to the rest of Cybertron had filtered down to Jazz through reliable sources. Jazz didn't expect it to be a secret for much longer, though. Cybertron was coming apart at the seams, and that was shaking everything loose. Hierarchies, information, mechs. Settling everything and everyone into the haves and have-nots even more than usual. The impression forming in Jazz's cortex was of a loose fist slowly clenching: those that made up the fist, the inner circle, were closing ranks, drawing in, while those on the outside were shaken off to fend for themselves.

It wasn't, for the most part, personal. Simply cruel reality. Resources were becoming limited, energon shortages were a way of life, and the war was picking up. Jazz was more than smart enough to read the writing on the wall. Lean times were coming, and the Decepticons and the Autobots were consolidating in preparation. Anyone not in with one of them would be on their own. Though the Neutrals were going to be hit hardest, those low in the faction were going to feel it, too.

Jazz wasn't exactly low. He'd just never seen the point in trying to scrape and scratch for rank. The fact that he did what he was told, did it right the first time, and didn't cause (much...irreversible...) trouble hadn't gone unnoticed, though, and he'd been steadily given more responsibility, more intel, more delicate and dangerous and demanding assignments.

Now, though.... Change was thick in the atmosphere, embodied in the furtive tension on the streets, the brisk business done at ridiculous prices...and the warship before him.

Jazz was used to change. One couldn't be complacent in Kaon. He was used to listening for the signs, watching for the change in the wind as the seekers said. Now...now was the time to double down.  
  
He had called in every favor he could, sending the word up the chain of command that he was a mech to watch. Many who he'd talked to had looked at him in surprise. Backdraft had outright laughed, saying she'd never taken him for the ambitious type. Jazz had smiled and said that just because he didn't play didn't mean he didn't know the rules of the game.

Jazz gave a flash of ident to the guards on the edge of the dock. It was the third checkpoint he'd run into on his way here, and that was just since he'd gotten off the shuttle. Security was tight, as it should be. Each checkpoint had scanned him and the pass chip he'd displayed, optics on him but servos waving him through.

He was expected.

Jazz pulled away from the checkpoint, heading exactly along the path the guards had uploaded to him. The last thing he wanted to do was anything suspicious. The plate-itching sense of sheer watchfulness combined with the clang of metal and the ground-shaking rumble of construction mechs all around was intimidating and nothing he wanted to frag with.

Jazz transformed as he reached the edge of a cargo ramp leading up into the Nemesis' vast hold, standing out of the way and eyeing the activity for the escort he'd been told to wait for.

Said escort lumbered down the ramp moments later with all the subtlety his heavy frame was capable of, having been watching for the small mech for several minutes. Broadside was not a loquacious mech. Neither was he inquisitive, unpredictable, particularly intelligent or easily distracted. The blue miner was, however, loyal to a fault, built like an anvil, possessing of good optics and a watchful nature. Escort duty often fell to him, and he was pleased to carry out the duty of bringing mecha into Megatron's inner-sanctum.

He set his bulk in front of the slight mech, red optics scanning over the ident as it was offered. "You Jazz?" A nod which Broadside mirrored gravely. "Okay. You got your pass chip, but you still gotsta do what I say coming on board, all right? You walk next to me. You wander off, I smash you. You pick a fight, I smash you. When you see Megatron, if you do something he don't like, maybe he smash you. Nemesis is gonna be the flagship of the Decepticons, so you treat it with respect. You do that, I don't smash you. Maybe like you."

The terms delivered, Broadside tipped his head to make sure Jazz understood and would abide. "We okay?"

Jazz had to tilt his head up--WAY up--to look at his escort as the big mech spoke. The miner's voice was like standing next to an avalanche. Jazz's plates clamped minutely in self-defense, but he was a Decepticon. He was used to interacting with the occasional heavy-class mech. Usually by staying out of their way and saying "yes, sir" a lot.

Jazz nodded, keeping his expression serious but with a touch of friendly. "Totally okay. No worries, I'll behave myself. Lead on."

Broadside nodded with a flicker of a smile, though his wide shoulders remained tight with force. He turned in a half circle, watched for Jazz to come into step on his right, and finally led them up the cargo ramp and into the lower decks of the Nemesis.

The ship was sleek right down to the support struts that ribbed the sinuous corridors, the very decking radiating power and the peak of technology. It was busy as well, red-opticked mechs and femmes traversing the long corridors with confident purpose. Broadside passed through the crew like an icebreaker, the smaller mech at his side riding in his wake. It was only when they reached an empty corridor nine levels up that the massive mech came to a stop, one hand moving out to guide Jazz's back to the wall as he did his own.

Seconds later, the sharp strike of a Seeker's pedes became a sound as opposed to a faint vibration in the deckplates. Broadside, aware of the vast difference between caste and _rank_ , which Megatron had not deposed, dipped his head. "Commander Starscream."

The Seeker shot him a sidelong look, optics narrow but wildly bright, his long fingers flexing at his sides as he noted the new mech. Nothing was said, and the Seeker soon vanished around the curve of the corridor.

Broadside stepped back out from the wall and nodded to the door Starscream had appeared from. Megatron's office. "Sorry, but you're right on time. You go on in now. Megatron'll comm. for me if he wants you to be walked back out."

Jazz bowed his own head respectfully, too, his optics following Starscream from behind his visor. There, Jazz was fairly sure, was a mech he wouldn't be able to impress. There was also, Jazz was DEFINITELY sure, a mech to watch. Word was in the Decepticon ranks that Starscream could be a help or a hindrance, depending on your skills, his needs, whether you had wings or not, and...his mood, mostly.

Jazz also didn't miss Broadside's phrasing: "if" he wants you walked out. Not "when". Jazz wondered if it was on purpose, if Megatron really was half-likely to deactivate random mechs in his office. Jazz somehow doubted it. It'd be messy to clean up, and the office was new....

Jazz nodded to Broadside. "Thanks for the escort, Broadside. I appreciate it." He did. The big mech had made it a Pit of a lot easier to get where he needed to be.

He turned to the indicated door, force-settling his plating and his processor. _Stay cool, Jazzmech. Nice an' easy._

He pinged out his ident to request entrance.

Deactivating the star map that had previously consumed most of one wall, Megatron transmitted a short-wave to the locking mechanisms to open the door. When the small mech had stepped through, they re-engaged with a short, sharp whine.

Critical optics swept over Jazz's frame, familiarising himself with the form behind the name and the reports. Extremely competent, reliably self-sufficient, and up until now functioning quietly on the outer edge of the Decepticon faction, accomplishing more and more 'tasks' that ought not to be traced back to the former gladiator.

Accommodating the mech's smaller stature, Megatron moved to sit behind the littered desk and rested one gauntlet and fist on its surface. His field was one of intrigue, confidently interested. "Jazz. You're a difficult mech to ignore when you want to be noticed." A single optical ridge twitched upwards in query. "All of a sudden."

Jazz hadn't, in his defense, expected his little whispers to reach all the way to Megatron. He'd hoped to reach, perhaps, the audios of Nightwing or Phantom or at most, maybe, Soundwave. To have Megatron himself interested in him was...a bit more than Jazz had expected.

Nothing he couldn't handle, of course. (After all, what was the worst that Megatron could say? "No, stay in Kaon and rust"? Jazz was used to that.) The opportunity to finally meet the Decepticon leader in person was not something to be wasted.

Still, though. Jazz didn't want to be seen as a shameless ladder-climber. No doubt Megatron was being inundated by those. Jazz had obviously miscalculated the amount of favor-calling-in required if he'd been that obvious.

Jazz vented a slightly abashed cough. "I hope that my friends weren't too obnoxious, sir."

Megatron's mouth twitched in a smile somewhere between reassuring and amused. The channels carrying information to his audios had been less direct than Jazz's insinuation, of course, but he'd been a recurring name for more than a few of his officers. That thinned the lithe mech out from the herd. "No, I have an interest in mecha with initiative and the skills to back it up. If I were not, you would not be here."

There was no 'guest chair' in front of the Decepticon Commander's desk - he rarely used his, preferring to work standing or on the move and expecting the same of his crew. He gestured as if there were one, however, affording Jazz with a typical 'front and centre' placement to his optics.

A fluid gesture of the newly-fitting talons on his fingers handed over the floor. It was clear in posture, pitch and field that Jazz had his full attention. "Present your case."

There were times, Jazz knew, that making the truth sound good was harder than telling any lie. Like now. He didn't want to sound like he was BOASTING, after all. Surely Megatron had hundreds of mechs trying to get his attention now.

Surely. And here Jazz was, summoned. INVITED.

_He's already interested. You're halfway there. Just don't sound like a glitchwit._

_Right. One non-glitchwit resume, coming right up._

Jazz smiled, the picture of confidence, holding the Decepticon leader's optics. "Sir. I'm sure you checked up on me, so I won't bore you with my credentials. My record speaks for itself as to the level of my skills. I can rig a supply line, wrangle an intel network, and if someone on the streets of Kaon knows it, I can find it out. I write a mean virus and can scrape intel from a system before slagging it. I can spy and sneak and steal and blow up whatever needs blown up. As for everything else, I'm dedicated, I'm loyal, and I'm trustworthy. I get along with just about everyone, and I can teamplay or work solo. I do what I'm told and do it right the first time, but I can improvise when things go bearings up. I can do what needs to be done, and I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty."

He straightened, chin tilting up. "I can be whatever you need me to be. And I just...want to be where I can do the most good, sir."

_Argh, you fell apart at the end there! Fraggit._

Weak line or not, Jazz made himself stop. Before he started babbling like a glitchwit.

Exactly the impression he'd received from the reports and evaluations, and Megatron had no interest in them at this point. His focus had been Jazz's presentation of what he already knew, the steadiness of his stance and the nuances of his field. In the Arena he'd become adept at reading a mech and knowing how savage he'd be, how much of a showman, what style of killing he favoured and whether he was apathetic for death or desperate to win in the short time it took for him to enter the arena and take position in the center circle. He could do it with opponents, and he'd gotten even better at doing it with allies.

Resting the tips of his talons in a loose spray on the desktop, Megatron hummed a low note before speaking. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that the situation on Cybertron has been escalating these past vorns and is fast approaching an apex now. It is no longer a question of gaining momentum for the cause, nor of overwhelming the Council with a majority ruling that will surpass even their corruption and deceit. The rise of the 'Autobots' and the bestowing of the Matrix upon Orion Pax for the sake of creating a pet Prime has turned this conflict into something else. This has gone beyond a rebellion or a revolution. A war has begun, and to win it quickly and decisively, I need mecha with intelligence, initiative and courage at my side."

Megatron stood, rising with lethal grace to his pedes and coming around the desk to stand directly in front of Jazz. He appeared to take another measure of the mech with steady optics, simmering the mountain of his field against the other's and taking satisfaction in the strength there. More significant was the lack of a flinch, cool optics holding his gaze in turn from their low vantage point.

He motioned with one hand, extending his forearm with an outwards tilt as he went on. "I believe that you possess these qualities Jazz, but you need to convince me that you are not going to be biting off more than you can chew. That you have the presence and stamina to not be a cog any longer, even in a machine in pursuit of casteless freedom, but a driving force."

The message was implicit. _If you are such a mech, then take my wrist in a warrior's grip and align yourself to me completely._

Jazz kept a ruthless lid on his relief as Megatron spoke, shunting aside the remains of his nervousness in favor of listening. Nothing that Megatron said was new, really, but hearing Megatron say it in person hardened Jazz's resolve. This was a mech with a processor and a plan and the bearings to see it through. Not some Councillor who'd never had soot on his pedes. Not an archivist malleable enough to listen to the Council's empty promises. Not part of the slagging PROBLEM.

Like all of them, Jazz had been angered and frustrated by the Council's responses. More of the same. More distraction. More figureheads. More WORDS, while the Enforcers picked up, tortured, and killed more "dissidents" every cycle. This was not a government that was looking for peace. This was not a government open to negotiation.

This was a government that needed REPLACED. And Megatron's glyphs, his words, his very field sliding along Jazz's sparked with action: incipient, focused aggression in support of change. In support of a VISION.

Jazz's field flared in complicated _eagerness/excitement/mind-spark-frame-lust_ in response to the revolution incarnate of Megatron's own before being reined in.

He reached out, hand grasping Megatron's wrist unhesitatingly. His fingers could not reach around the strength of strut and hydraulics and plating under his fingers.

Jazz looked up into Megatron's burning optics, proud and unflinching. "I will do whatever it takes, sir. Let me convince you."

Proximity, and the strong intermingling of their fields from the extended offer and now physical contact, meant that Megatron would have been hard pressed to _miss_ that hot flicker through the other mech's systems.

 _Interesting...._ And not at all unappealing.

Idly, he flicked his thumb across Jazz's forearm, considering. This was far from the first time such an 'interest' had presented itself, though the former-gladiator usually made a point not to indulge with mecha not already within his circle or with those outside of it intending to make their way in. Sharing a charge was not the way to get into the higher ranks of the Decepticons, and Megatron did not wish to feed any rumours to the contrary.

However, Jazz's background was impeccable, his skills of importance and his place already assured. So it wouldn't truly be an act of coercion. Just indulgence.

His field pulsing warm assent, Megatron kept his tone flat though his mouth did pull into a thin, challenging smile. "Go ahead."

Jazz's processor slipped a thread or three as the Decepticon leader's pulse washed over him. Had Megatron just....

He had. Well. Again with the getting further than he'd expected.

Jazz hesitated for a nanoklik. He didn't want to seem like a charge-hungry pleasurebot. Not that he couldn't be that, but he was MORE than that, and he reran the whole conversation through his buffer to make sure that he'd not managed to somehow give Megatron that impression. Or that Megatron had invited him here with that impression.

No. No, there'd been a flick of surprise in Megatron's field when they touched, THEN this flick to...slag and fire he felt good...everything else. He'd caught Jazz's interest and reacted. That was all.

_I can be whatever you need me to be._

And that, Jazz decided, was JUST FINE. His only concern was that Megatron knew his skills. If Megatron knew his skills and was also interested in something a little more personal, well...Jazz's only concern should then be which of the 291 fantasy versions of this meeting he'd dreamed up over the vorn he'd like to actually attempt.

Megatron's thumb moving along Jazz's arm sparked a lash of pleasure that Jazz didn't even try to hide. The curl of Megatron's fingers along...slag, the ENTIRETY OF HIS FOREARM gave Jazz dangerous ideas, but he knew that battle mods such as those deadly claws would be insensitive. As nice as sucking on them sounded to Jazz, it wouldn't do much for Megatron.

Instead, Jazz's plating flared slightly in invitation as he stepped forward, hand coming to rest on Megatron's other arm. Slim, charged fingers slid up and over plating seams, pressing a pulse of his own EMF into every neural cluster he passed, hard enough that it would get through the heavy armor. Hard enough to get through Megatron's own EMF, which Jazz was now, this close, practically STANDING IN.

Still, there was one important question. "How much time I got?" Jazz asked softly, thinking of all the possibilities and hoping they came through in his smile as he tilted his head up to hold Megatron's optics.

Megatron's engined rumbled a low purr of amusement, underscored with pleasure. Jazz's knowingness of the degree of strength required to get at his neurals through his armour, and then his skill at doing so with perfect precision, spoke more about his personal competence and ability than many of the reports. The former gladiator knew better than most how much more could be learnt about another mecha through direct experience.

Gaze steady on Jazz's, and sliding his thumb across the smaller mech's forearm just to get that reaction again, Megatron smiled fractionally in turn. "Eighty-seven kliks." Then, to the astro-klik, Soundwave would be standing sentry outside the door, waiting to be admitted.

More enjoying Jazz's delight in size difference than the fact of it, Megatron withdrew his hand from the mech's forearm to slide his talons around his torso. It wasn't a hold but rather a means to stimulate most of the sensors in Jazz's side and at once. "Make the most of it."

Jazz loosed his hold on his field, letting Megatron feel just how much he liked the touch of that big hand...which was A LOT. The warmth and the sheer contained power in the touch as Megatron cupped a hand around most of his torso made Jazz's field shiver in something that wasn't fear. Not at all.

Jazz laughed, delighted. He'd expected maybe fifteen kliks or so, but EIGHTY-SEVEN? He'd reduced mechs to puddles of sated metal in less. Not that he expected Megatron to be that easy, and wasn't THAT half the fun of it?

Jazz grinned, stepping closer, until he could hear Megatron's power plant purring under thick plating. Their sizes were such that his head only came to Megatron's torso. Kinda fun, but really, he needed to set a PRECEDENT here, and he wanted to SEE....

Tilting his head back, Jazz ran his hands up Megatron's chestplates. He hooked fingers around the top of Megatron's chest armor and PULLED himself up, EM following his body in a long, hard stroke (and oh Megatron's field sliding against his own was delightful, but Jazz didn't let himself get distracted). Jazz's feet found armored thigh plates to brace against, his weight balanced between feet and hands, as close to Megatron's center of gravity as he could get.

He barely believed this was happening, but if there was one thing to be said for Jazz, it was that he knew an opportunity for a good time when he saw it presented to him on a gilded platter. And Megatron telling him to make the most of their time? Was an opportunity for a SERIOUSLY good time.

Jazz leaned in to nuzzle the join of helm and neck. "Yes, sir," he murmured, pressing the words into the heady wash of Megatron's field, along with more complicated glyphs than he'd never used with any other lover.

_Awed desire...hopeful determination...._

_...Fealty._

Megatron rumbled approval and appreciation in a base pitch that ran vibrations through his frame, tinged with amusement at having a mech hanging onto his chassis. Size differences of this degree could pose more hindrances than benefits, but Jazz seemed more than athletically keen enough to compensate. Still.

Sliding a careful hand down Jazz’s back, talons snicking gracefully across the fine angles and planes of his frame, Megatron turned back towards the desk. He lay rather than threw the small mech onto the surface, tempting as it had been, but the resultant spray of datapads, chips and other miscellanea out onto the floor was more than satisfactory. Jazz appeared to think so too, visor flashing with delight.

Also tempting was to leave the silver mech sprawled on the desktop like this, drag him back to the edge and slam into him whilst his hands were left free to roam. Jazz was sturdy enough for such treatment. However, the loyal Decepticon had approached him and seemed to have a pretty clear idea of what he wanted. More than anything, Megatron wanted to see what he was capable of.

Leaving his panel closed, the larger mech prowled up onto the desk to cup Jazz’s helm and slide his thumb across his mouth. His field communicated _challenge_ and _go ahead_ as much as simple arousal, thrumming hard and hot into the mech’s body beneath him. The deep engine purr underscoring a nip and glossa lathe across Jazz’s throat was permission to indulge.

Jazz's first thought when his back hit the desk was that he'd had about half a dozen fantasies JUST like this. Most of them had involved Megatron.

Jazz wasn't sure what he'd done to gain Primus' favor, but whatever it was, he hoped that he'd keep doing it.

Jazz's mouth opened automatically, glossa peeking out to swipe over the stroking claw. Oh, the claws. Jazz wasn't entirely sure what it was about the claws. It wasn't as if he didn't have some himself. His, of course, were on a much smaller scale, and that seemed to be the key point for many of the things that he found physically attractive about Megatron: size and power. If he were thinking about it (which he wasn't), Jazz might have come up with the attraction springing from all that power being on HIS SIDE for once: power that wasn't dragging him to prison or beating him to slag, not threatening his livelihood or his friends or his LIFE. Power like that working WITH him instead of against him? Incredibly attractive.

Power like that at his plating, pleasing him? Even better.

Jazz danced his glossa over the clawtip, then moved his mouth down slightly, lashing his glossa at what would be (if the claws were new, and Jazz was 80% sure that they were) the new transformation join. New mods were sensitive, the plating and mesh comprising them hyper-attuned to the new configuration and the mech's systems still under medical protocols to monitor the new linkages. Jazz SUCKED on them.

He arched up to press against as much of the warlord's frame as possible, translating the hum of Megatron's systems through his own frame as a full-body shiver that started deliciously close to his interface panel. Jazz groaned at the sensation, hands trailing down Megatron's frame to lay his claws on the sensitive armor joins in Megatron's torso and PULSE his EMF through them.

Whatever Megatron had been expecting, this intuitiveness had not been it. Jazz had followed a hunch with his talons, and the firm pressa of glossa and denta to the new joins, the heat and suction, summoned a pleased purr. It had been a while since any mecha had been anything other than pliant and submissive with him - and none had engaged so readily and skillfully since the Decepticon movement had begun.

The mech’s smaller and more fragile frame made his assertion even more intoxicating, and Megatron ground his body down against Jazz’s heated panel in encouragement. Hot pulses crawled against his mesh, flashing white heat down his lines that pooled with anticipation behind his own panel.

“Such talent,” Megatron praised, uttering it quietly against his helm. Then he pressed his mouth to the underside of Jazz’s jaw, grazing his denta down to fix upon a point between his neck and shoulder. He pulsed his own charge back in waves, free hand raking down Jazz’s side to grasp his aft.

Jazz's sensornet fritzed with pleasure, heat and pressure and vibration--the sheer PRESENCE of such a large, powerful mech pressed against him, crouched over him, systems running hot and hard in arousal--conspiring to make him bold. He hadn't been prepared for this, at all. At that first interested spike of Megatron's field, Jazz had started winging this and had never stopped. At first he'd wanted to take this slow, but fraggit, this was a fantasy come true, and they had plenty of time for seconds, thirds, perhaps even fourths if they were quick about it.

"Mmm, you ain't seen nothin' yet." Jazz lifted one leg, wrapping it around Megatron's hips, pressing back, grinding his panel against Megatron's. His field pulsed _appreciation-want-desire_ , and his valve was already lubricating in anticipation. Because as much of a stereotype as it was, he WANTED that to happen.

SO much.

Jazz vented hard, temperature already spiking not just from the proximity of a large, aroused warbuild pressed to his plating but also from the images his own fevered processor was tossing at him. He arched, head turning to catch the Decepticon leader's lips in a demanding kiss. His hands pressed a twin caress down the thick helm, his interface panel opening somewhere in the middle. The shock of cool air on his lubricated spike and valve made his ventilations stutter, and he pressed both components against the warmth of Megatron's plating out of sheer self-defense.

"Want you," Jazz gasped, the words falling from his vocalizer in a tumble that had lost its brakes. One hand moved southward on instinct and found Megatron's interface panel. He ran the heel of his hand over it, hard. "Want your spike. Want you to pound me into this desk. Y'know...for starters."

Megatron tipped his helm back at the touch, feeling Jazz’s words against the pit of his throat as much as hearing them. He smirked at the eagerness, engine rumbling a thick note of appreciation that he took off his internal dampeners to amplify and _pulse_ into the mech’s body.

Shifting his weight onto an elbow on the desk, he swept up both of Jazz’s forearms in his other hand and held them bound against the bright chassis. Pressing down to pin and restrain the smaller mech, Megatron nosed his helm to one side to press his mouth against an audio. “I think I can see to that.” A quiet sound as his own panel snapped back, and he pressed his spike against the scorching point of heat between Jazz’s thighs. With a smile, Megatron quietly added, “If you’re certain that you can take me.”

The difference in their sizes, stimulating as it was, also called for some measure of caution. Not that they couldn’t get to the hard, optic-whitening fragging that was so clearly called for - just that some care would be needed to start off. Jazz was a full frame and _undoubtedly_ experienced, so Megatron saw no need to coddle preparing his valve first. Everything about him was also screaming for _hard_ , for as much as could be taken, and it was to indulge that desire that Megatron shifted to press his spike against and then slowly into the tight channel.

Slowly, confidently, the former gladiator sank into the glorious furnace of Jazz’s valve without a pause, watching the mech’s face intently as he felt the calipers flex and stretch to accommodate him. His ventilations had turned near-ragged when he was fully seated, and he rolled his hips to feel Jazz try to arch beneath him.

“Don’t let me break you.” It was an instruction of practicality more than anything else.

Jazz had seen Megatronus fight in the arena, once or twice. He was, for all his size, a calculated fighter, an observer who kept his enemy at bay and then turned on him with a devastating assault on his opponent's weaknesses.

Jazz understood what that felt like, now. The pulse of Megatron's unshielded EMF had slammed into Jazz's sensors and set them reeling. Jazz's vocalizer had bled static as his whole body resonated with Megatron's arousal like a tuning crystal. He'd felt the grip on his hands and thought nothing more than "oh Primus, yes" before letting himself be stretched and pinned by one large hand.

Dimly, Jazz was sure that the size difference would stop being overwhelmingly hot at some point, but that point was not now.

Instead, Jazz moaned, writhing not to get away but get CLOSER, babbling in half-glyphs that yes, yes, he could take it, he was sure. He WOULD, he'd decided when he started this. Was it not a great idea? Maybe. Jazz had never seen the spike in question, after all, though he expected that Megatron was on the upper edge of what his valve could take safely. But Jazz had pushed that limit before (there had been an incident with a shuttleformer who'd shared his fascination with differently-sized mechs that had been utterly and completely worth the painful and slightly awkward trip to the clinic afterward) and was looking forward to doing it again. He figured that if there was any place for taking more than you were specced for, it was spread out on Megatron's desk.

That decision was only proven right as Megatron's spike pressed in. Jazz's head tipped back, his attention on the optic-whitening sensation of being stretched and filled, a heavy spike sliding hard over delicate sensors. Their lubrication was enough, barely, and Jazz could feel his valve autonomics struggling with the invasion, unsure as to whether this was a good idea. Jazz overrode them all, relaxing every caliper he had. Even then it was too much and utterly perfect at the exact same time.

When Megatron was fully seated, the tip of his spike nudged Jazz's ceiling node with a jolt of pleasure, then another as the Decepticon leader rolled his hips. Jazz cried out, claws digging into his own palms as he dug his heels into the small of Megatron's back to HOLD him there. His awareness slowly expanded back out to include more than the other mech's spike. The warlord's ragged ventilations, the aroused industrial-grade systems growling practically on top of Jazz, that FIELD...like being fragged by a SUN....

Don't let me break you? Oh Primus, Jazz thought, why NOT? His reply, though, was just a blissed, hungry grin, a nod, and a "Never, sir".

Then another minute shift at the heavy weight in his valve made Jazz nearly bite his own glossa, and his glyphs slipped into filthy Kaonese gutter slang. "Gimme what ya got. I can take it."

“I have every confidence of it.” Megatron’s own Kaonese accent crept closer to the fore in sympicato, though it was still smoothed of much of the roughness of his youth. A slow withdrawal and harder thrust back into that impossibly tight, perfectly slick heat, and he nipped just hard enough to mark at Jazz’s neck struts before drawing back again. His expression was calculating. Predatory. “We’ll get to it.”

For now, though, he was fully intending to wring out the advantages in their frame differences. Jazz clearly enjoyed being made to feel small, overwhelmed by the strength and presence of a much larger mechanism. Maintaining his unforgiving hold of Jazz’s forearms in one massive hand, Megatron brought the other to grip his hip and keep that valve held tightly down on his spike as he moved back. He stood and felt the mech’s legs wrap around his hips automatically, holding Jazz upright with his restrained arms between their chests and a hand beneath his aft.

The angle changed dramatically, felt deeper as gravity pulled Jazz down along with Megatron’s guiding hand, and he threw his head back with a harsh sound as he began to move in faster thrusts. He’d let Jazz have the use of his hands back soon, but right now, it was intoxicating to hold the mech restrained and at his mercy, driving into his body at a speed and strength of his choosing.

Jazz's gyroscope readings swung drunkenly as Megatron moved them both, the angle change slamming into Jazz like a live current. Pressure and heat and FORCE hit sensor nodes usually barely FLIRTED with, and Jazz's vocalizer glitched in a skirl of static. Pleasure that skirted the edge of pain flooded his sensornet, making actual thought impossible. The closest Jazz could get was frame-instinct, his legs clamped around Megatron's waist, his hands fighting their restraints to scrabble blindly at Megatron's plating.

Then Megatron started to move, and Jazz lost himself completely, his entire body clamping down into a humming sheath for that glorious spike as it pounded into him. He lowered his vocalizer volume, hardcoding it in because the last thing he wanted was to get interrupted by anyone coming to see what the racket was. IF anyone would come to see what the racket was. The thought that this was MEGATRON and that he could literally do whatever he wanted with Jazz skipped through the smaller mech's overheating processor like an arc of current, and Jazz was WIRED WRONG, because that didn't cool him down at all, oh no, it just pistoned into him along with the smooth stroke of Megatron's spike to churn up more charge.

Jazz's helm tipped forward, resting against Megatron's chestplates as he just gave up trying to control ANYTHING. Pleasure spiraled heady and intimate into his field, urgency markers adorning his glyphs as he rode the pulse of Megatron's desire. _pleasure-want-YESyesyesyes-more-please-PLEASE-more...._

Megatron finally released his iron-clad grip on Jazz’s forearms, grasping the mech’s back instead to play his talons against every sensor node he was aware of on this frame-type, pulsing an orchestral note of pulses and field flares against the physical scrapes of his claws. His pace was merciless now, not as hard as they could go, but powerful enough to pixelate the very edges of his vision.

Jazz’s valve _clung_ to him, impossibly tight despite the lubricant and dragging every possible spark of charge from the sensors and neural clusters in his spike. He tipped his helm back with a groaned growl, felt the mech’s hands scrabble at his plating, and caught the already-open mouth with his own for a kiss as feral and penetrative as the motion of his hips.

It wasn’t entirely his decision, not consciously anyway, to go back to the desk, but _slaggit_ he wanted a brace beneath Jazz to _slam_ into him. He caught one slender leg and jerked the knee over his forearm, curled his body like a predator over a fresh kill, all possession and heat as he tested Jazz’s assertion that he could _take him_.

Thighs tipped out to better accomodate him, calipers _undulating_ around his spike with every thrust and pull, dragging out every sensation into white-line bliss. So unabashedly talented, so experienced, and yet so _tight_. Megatron bit the first mesh he encountered, tasting lubricants and charge, moaning into the sordid palette. “Slag, you feel good...”

Finally freed, Jazz's hands latched onto Megatron's shoulders, claws digging in hard enough to show his appreciation for the truly magnificent fragging he was receiving, because his processor was rapidly losing the ability to queue up proper words, glyphs, or anything else. He was too caught up in his sensor net, the entirety of his frame sparking and writhing and completely unable to keep still under the onslaught.

Never in his life had he been so DEVOURED by a lover, and the pride and warmth that desire gave him only made it all better, made every touch and kiss and THRUST spark hot pleasure down every neural line in his frame. The very atmosphere pressing on his shivering plating felt like a caress.

Jazz pushed it all into Megatron, his field swollen and pulsing with rapidly rising charge. Very rapidly rising.

"Frag," Jazz moaned into Megatron's neck, half wanting to hold out, half wanting it, NEEDING it, if only so they could start all over.

Then Megatron's teeth scraped hard against his mesh, biting deep, and the sharp, clear pain reverberated like a sonic blast through a sensor net already primed with pleasure. Jazz lost hold of what little control he still had.

Claws dug into mesh, frame bowing, head tipped back and only his partially-muted vocalizer keeping his cry from ringing through the entire Nemesis, Jazz overloaded.

Megatron demonstrated no such restraint with his own vocaliser, trusting the dampening field of the office to cage in the racket as he _growled_ into Jazz’s body, clamping one hand around the mech’s abdomen to hold him solidly still as he chased his own overload. The wild charge fell into his field, readily tasted and absorbed, and he felt the minute shift in Jazz’s valve as overload relaxed parts not associated with interfacing to permit that final stretch.

Cabling flexed, hydraulics hissed and the massive mech shunted a wave of superheated air as he braced one fist against the desk into the curve of Jazz’s shoulder, denta gritting as he put to test that he could take him. It was glorious - the heat, the friction, the absolute and utter control over such a small mech who moaned and sparked with every shattering thrust. Near beyond belief that he could go this hard without inflicting pain, that he was being not only accommodated but encouraged with masterful skill and confidence.

His own overload crashed through his processor like a blast, and Megatron curled to ravage Jazz’s mouth again like a lifeline. What started out hard and savage softened into lazy glossa flicks and grazing denta as the charge gradually dissipated and restored his ability to think straight.

Withdrawing from the kiss with a rumble, Megatron nudged the side of Jazz’s helm to tip his face away, mouthing at a thin line of energon he’d drawn earlier. “You are something else, Jazz....”

"Nnnnngh," Jazz replied, along with the machine-code glyphs for "out of order". His hands dropped limply from Megatron's arms, thumping onto the desk beneath him. "Me? Damn, mech, that was the best frag I've EVER had." He onlined his optics again, after discovering that he'd turned them off at some point. His grin up at Megatron was utterly debauched, utterly satisfied. "Seriously."

Jazz hooked his hands in Megatron's collar fairing, using it to haul himself up into a lazy, thorough kiss, his glossa dancing over Megatron's dente. He smiled, tasting his own energon there. Ghost-signals of pleasure shivered through his sensor-net, and they ended in his valve, which he clenched for one last, long caress as he braced his feet against Megatron's hips and pulled himself off. His reward was a last rush of pleasure and then a wash of errors that would hurt if he let them. He'd been right in his estimation: Megatron pushed the limits of what his frame could take, and that was before the brutally perfect fragging was brought into the equation. Jazz's valve ACHED in an utterly used, utterly wonderful way that he nonetheless knew was going to bloom into actual pain if he wasn't careful.

Jazz checked his chronometer...and grinned into Megatron's neck cables. "Mmm. So. Forty kliks left. Assuming you don't want me to go...." He picked a particularly sensitive-looking cable and licked along it, hard, frame stretching to follow his glossa's path. "What WILL we do with the time?"

Megatron was a little stunned, both from the strut-quivering overload and from the revelation that, despite a brutal and thorough fragging, Jazz was still up for more. Jazz was either utterly insatiable (in which case, _welcome_ to the crew) or thought that this interlude was a one-time opportunity. It could well be, but that depended on a lot of external factors, and right now the large mech had very little interest in factors that weren’t interfacing equipment.

He leaned into the meandering of Jazz’s glossa in encouragement, sliding a hand down the mech’s thigh and hip to trace a claw-tip through the soaked and vastly overheated valve. As much as Jazz was up for seconds, he doubted that his valve was without a risk of damage and palmed the opening whilst lowering the surface temperature of his hand to cool and soothe. There were always alternatives, of course, and he sorely doubted that Jazz ran short of imagination in this department.

“I don’t know. Did you have anything in mind?” Megatron took a sensor horn into his mouth to ‘help’ Jazz think, taking the opportunity to retract his depressurising spike back behind his panel. He didn’t outright trust the mech (yet), but he was perfectly agreeable to anything he might want to do next.

Jazz purred at the cool, soothing pressure on his valve, then at the hot, wet suction on one sensor horn. His claws flexed against Megatron's plating. "Mmmm...oh, I got ideas all right. You want me to alphabetize that list?"

Jazz grinned, tilting his head up to look Megatron in the optics. The Decepticon leader was looking at him like a mech who'd ordered sludge low-grade and got Crystal Star's Best with extra iridium instead: surprised but pleased and quite willing to take advantage of all the situation had to offer.

 _Perfect_ , Jazz thought, pleased himself. This wasn't how he'd planned spending this interview, but he wasn't about to waste the opportunity, for either professional or personal reasons.

Besides, he thought as he ran a hand down Megatron's abdomen, there was SO much more left to explore.

"Mmm, my best idea, though, might require a berth or at least the floor." Jazz looked over his shoulder at the desk mock-speculatively. The angle was wrong and besides, "Mighta held up to me, but I doubt it'll hold up to you."

Jazz's hand pointedly slid around Megatron's spike casing on its way to palming over his valve cover, servos sliding over every available external sensor he could find.

Megatron tipped his helm fractionally, overly bright optics narrowing at the firm touch sliding over sensors and joins that saw very little contact. They were well past the point where he could actually be surprised by Jazz’s sexual boldness, and despite their size differences, Megatron found himself confident that allowing this reversal would end very pleasantly. Just the grope down to his valve panel had sent shivers of fresh charge along his lines.

In answer to Jazz’s request to move, the larger mech kept his grip on his partner’s side and shoulder to transfer them both to the deckplates. Still prowling over him on elbows and knees, Megatron moved one leg so that a slim white thigh lay between his and pressed into his closed panel as a sign of assent.

“Proceed,” he invited with a purr of glyphs for _acceptance/challenge/welcome/anticipation/delight_.

Jazz grinned, the deck pressing cold against overheated backplating. Still, with as swamped as his sensors were, even that felt good. It cleared his processor a bit, and he let the sensation arch him up, hands stroking down Megatron's transformation seams and sliding claws in to tweak shielded linkages.

"Yes, SIR," he answered, stretching up to claim Megatron's mouth again while his knee pressed up to roll over that hot panel, back and forth, back and forth. His hands flattened, slowly, hooking onto convenient parts of the warlord's armor to allow him (with one last smirk before he lost optic contact), to pull himself lower. His glossa followed his claws, sliding in slow contemplation of sensor-rich junctures and hollows where Megatron's playful mood had loosened the plating enough to bare usually-hidden places.

Jazz pulled himself slowly lower, backplates scraping lightly over the decking as he crawled along Megatron's ventral side, licking and stroking. He finished his slide off with a not-so-gentle bite to a hardy bit of hip plating before turning his attention to Megatron's interface panel. "Mmmm," Jazz purred, venting a stream of hot air over the panel before leaning up and tracing its seams with the very tip of his glossa.

So outside his control, the twitch of Megatron’s hips downwards was near-traitorous, and he locked his shoulder and elbow joints to remain fixed over the small mech, now out of sight and up to all sorts of mischief. He didn’t want to contemplate how long it had been since someone had done this, let alone when it had last been _enjoyable_. The Syndicate was cycles gone and part of the life of another name and another mech, but mesh-memory was less forgiving and forgetful. A barb of feeling beneath the physical was waiting for the spark-stripping pain to come, or some new form of humiliation from a mecha who truly saw low-caste shareware as a thing to be abused for their own pleasure and nothing more.

Jazz was...expertly sidestepping those private traps so far, it seemed, and Megatron couldn’t fathom if it was just an aftereffect of the first overload of if the mech really was _that_ good. Dismissing the wondering that was as distracting as the anticipation of something unpleasant, Megatron shuttered his optics and _snick_ ed back the panel whose admission Jazz had been adoringly requesting.

Immediately his helm dropped, a gear slipping somewhere deep and his vents rumbling like something had been knocked loose and coarse. Servos curling into fists, vocaliser temporarily (and embarrassingly) incapable of actual words, he pulsed a fuzzy mix of _Primus/Frag_ in appreciation of what Jazz was managing to do with his mouth.

Jazz lost himself in the heavy frame above him, in finding and lavishing attention on the spots that would make that frame hiss and twitch and stutter in pleasure. In this position, his sensors were swamped with Megatron's field and the sounds of his frame, his audials filled with the growl of the warlord's systems. Jazz writhed with the heady shifts in Megatron's EM signature, his own syncing unconsciously to make them both feel even better as his glossa licked and sucked and nibbled at his goal.

He wasn't quite so far gone to not recognize the veil of tension in Megatron's field. Jazz wasn't surprised. Megatron certainly enjoyed being the spike mech (and how!) Who knew how long it'd been since anyone'd dared to try and get at his valve? Jazz wasn't sure if it was nervousness or something else, but it dropped into his processing threads, making him look at his chronometer and decide to go for quality over quantity.

He purred as the valve cover slid back, hands hooking around Megatron's hips to give him leverage as he leaned up to take a nice, long taste. Not all frames had the same sensor pattern around their valves, but Jazz's glossa was more than sensitive enough to find the slight ridges, bumps, and whorls that needed extra attention. He concentrated on those, ignoring the valve interior for now, his own spike painfully pressurized behind his panel as he coaxed pleasure from the Decepticon leader with lips, glossa, and dente.

Megatron almost, _almost_ jerked a hand down to grasp Jazz’s helm and force it hard to his valve, keening for more pressure, more friction. There was an _ache_ coming into bloom that felt like hollowness, and the white sparks of pleasure the lithe mech was inciting were only orbiting it. Highlighting it. And _Primus_ suddenly trepidation was gone and he _wanted_.

He kept his hands fisted against the deckplates, damn-near touched his helm to the floor as well as neural lines shot through with such hypersensitivity that they felt alternatively aflame and numb. His voice was hoarse but controlled, though the rush of lubricant in his valve probably communicated his sentiments far more articulately.

“Don’t tease.”

Jazz grinned against the slick, heated plates, pressing a kiss to their shivering hum. ::I never tease. Just take my time.::

He moved one hand from where it was buried in the wiring of Megatron's hip, dragging one slim finger through the mess of lubricants they'd both made. That finger took his glossa's place circling the most responsive of the sensors ringing his prize. Slightly more pressure, slightly more speed, then pressing down on the center of the sensor as he leaned up and stabbed his glossa into the valve clenching on atmosphere above him.

The eager wash of lubricants over his glossa was worth the time spent on preparation. The size difference would have normally made this pleasant but not terribly fulfilling to the heavyframe, but Jazz guessed that the attention after many cycles of nothing felt better than that. Megatron's valve lining clamped down on his glossa with sensitized intent, and Jazz offlined his optics, moving by feel to find and follow the spirals of sensor nodes lining the hot, slick channel.

The roll of Megatron’s hips into the sensation was not of his own volition. Neither was the core-deep moan that went with it. Though the probing glossa was sliding at a shallow depth, ghost sensations of the desired deeper presence was drawing out the sensation. It made his valve switch, calipers tightening in search of a hardness to grip, and when Jazz’s denta scraped across a sensory node on the rim at the same time, the jolt of ecstasy made him clamp down with a near-shout.

“Ah frag, _there_.” And Primus strike him down if he wasn’t hoping that Jazz would spike him of his own volition, because at this point he was more than torqued up enough to hold the smaller mech still and impale himself on him like a berth toy.

Jazz, obligingly, gave him more "there", alternating between licking into the clenching valve and nibbling and sucking on the sensor-laden rim. He could feel the frustration building in Megatron's field and gloried in it, feeding it with more and different pleasures to distract it from the fact that he wasn't exactly giving it what it wanted just yet.

Power. Jazz was a good enough Decepticon to enjoy it in all the right ways.

Jazz shifted, finding the anterior sensor node by feel more than anything and closing his mouth around it. His dente scraped against the sensor, glossa flicking out to tease as his fingers traced around the valve, slow and deliberate and slick.

 _Good?_ Jazz sent, his glyphs perhaps a little too innocent. _More?_

Jazz's first two fingers slid in, the push easy as anything with the slick of their lubricants. Jazz pushed until the palm of his hand cupped the rest of the valve rim, set his tongue to the sensor cluster under his mouth, and PURRED.

Megatron _snarled_ at the question, backstrut curling at the deliberate, knowing orchestration of his sensors' nodes. He wasn’t experienced with slow when it came to manipulations of his valve, didn’t know that so much could be done with fingertips, mouth and glossa alone, as debilitating as any pain in that region.

Penetration was _something else_ entirely, and the former gladiator’s body stiffened in a wave of physical relief as that itch for depth was finally scratched. When Jazz, rather cruelly, added the vibrations of his vocaliser to the mix, he lost all semblence of control and grasped the mech’s helm between his thighs. Jazz didn’t stop, seemed to be delightedly spurned on rather than surprised, and he did _something else_ that Megatron couldn’t parse out because that last twitch or humm or swirl was utterly undoing.

He overloaded with a harsh sound that quickly trailed into something liquid, mirroring the sensation sweeping through his struts and bleaching his optics near-white. His hand and the arm connected to it trembled against Jazz's helm, and he had enough scraps of processor left to check that he hadn’t accidentally punctured the mesh.

Jazz's purr continued, though he pulled away far enough that it was purely expressive rather than evocative.

There'd been a moment, there, when Jazz had been the tiniest bit worried that he'd have his helm crushed between an overloading warlord's thighs (and wouldn't THAT have been a ridiculous and fun way to go?), but that? That had been hot. Hottest thing yet. Hot enough that Jazz's own systems were fully re-revved and ready to go and wondering why, for the love of Primus, THEY were not getting any of the attention being bandied about.

He carefully removed his hands from Megatron's interface components, to let him cool down. There was lubricant EVERYWHERE. His hands, his face, Megatron. Jazz grinned approval into Megatron's hip. He'd always figured that if there wasn't lubricant all over the place, then he wasn't doing it right.

Jazz gave a last caress to sensitive seams and made his way back up Megatron's body. His hands slipped against the decking, then against Megatron as he tried that handhold instead. He laughed, amused and delighted, and finally stretched up to where he could get his mouth on Megatron's, glossa licking for entrance and then sliding in, his arms wrapped around Megatron's neck.

Jazz's frame hummed in sympathy with Megatron's, the very air shuddering deliciously with the EMF of the larger mech's overload.

Jazz checked his chronometer. Twenty-eight kliks left. Pushing it, especially if they wanted to look anything like respectable afterwards, but Jazz was beyond caring. He arched up, one leg winding around Megatron's waist to pull him up flush up against that deliciously overheated plating. His panel ACHED.

"Mmmm..." He nuzzled against Megatron's neck, his field full of _happiness-delight-want-hunger_ , waiting until Megatron seemed capable of focusing. "You are amazing," he murmured. _And obviously don't do this nearly enough,_ he thought but didn't say. He'd work on that. "One more? Got one more awesome idea...." The click of his spike cover retracting was loud to his audials, but was drowned in the grind of metal as he arched up, the movement of atmosphere over bared sensors demanding MORE.

Megatron didn’t waste any time answering following that sound, that _click_ of a gateway to _somewhere else_ opening, because like slag was he going to miss a nanosecond of what was being offered. It was pure greed with two overloads having already fragged his systems into misfiring bliss, but the gladiator grasped Jazz’s aft in one hand and snapped their hips flush with all the force of having had none at all. The mech’s spike pulled to the hilt into his valve wasn’t an overwhelmingly great fit, though it still felt astonishingly satisfying after so long and following such a build up.

Fortunately for Jazz, this was something that Megatron knew how to adapt to.

Gladiators without a patron were owned by a Syndicate who sponsored repairs, advertising and modifications. Arena matches alone were rarely deemed enough for a gladiator to be earning their keep, and it was common but unspoken for them to be loaned out to suitably wealthy clients who enjoyed powerful mecha. Gladiators were rarely small builds, unlike the Towerlings who summoned them through the Syndicate who were invariably small and with demanding standards. It wasn’t a physical modification as such, but rather a very specific micro-transformation program that they’d all been supplied with.

Megatron hadn’t deleted his when Soundwave became his patron and the greatest supporter of the Decepticon cause. He wanted that reminder of where he’d come from and the twisted subjugation and corruption that he was burning out of Cybertron.

Backstrut curled so as to reach Jazz’s mouth, he kissed the lithe mech deep and sound as an indication to _wait_. It took a little concentration: shifting hydraulic cabling up from both thighs forwards and tight, dropping a fuel pump and four transformation cogs deeper into his pelvis, and torquing up the calipers to ultimately constrict his valve into a far more fulfilling degree of tightness. Then he shifted on his knees in a rock, testing, and groaned with clenched optics at the white-hot perfection of the feeling.

He couldn’t remember it _ever_ feeling like _this_ before.

Jazz nearly choked on his glossa. He'd been expecting to have to Get Creative. Megatron wasn't the first large mech he'd spiked, and he'd come up with several creative ways to make the experience circuit-blowing for all involved. He'd already been mentally sorting through his subspace to find the right vibrator when he was moving again, slick-scraping across metal to get where Megatron wanted him.

Which was, evidently, right in his valve. His slowly...TIGHTENING valve. Jazz had heard of such things but never expected Megatron of all mechs to have that mod.

"Frag," Jazz moaned into Megatron's mouth as thin mesh plating transformed around his spike, pressing in closer, closer, until.... "Frag, that's...nnnngh.... Primus...."

Jazz arched, pressing as deep as he could and wishing he had more to give because it just felt THAT good. Tight and slick and overheated, and Jazz pumped his hips slowly. He wrapped his arms around Megatron's waist, hands splaying over his aft in a largely futile but definitely demonstrative effort to encourage heat and friction and MORE.

The former gladiator obliged him more for his _own_ gratification than Jazz’s at this point, shifting his knees forwards to straddle the smaller mech against the floor. He covered the slim abdomen with one hand, thumb skirting back to graze the point where they met and ramp up the stimulation.

Megatron wondered briefly if Jazz minded being effectively used as a frag toy at this point, decided with certainty that the mech would likely _enjoy_ that thought, and continued the rolling pull and thrust of his hips with a low, vibrating sound. The new angle, the deckplates at Jazz’s back, let him grind extra pressure and friction against his valve, lithe hands gripping and clawing at his aft in wanton encouragement.

He would still gladly, greedily take more, however.

Helm dropping back as his backstrut arched into the fluid motion, smooth and rough and loud, Megatron sent a query/invitation glyph burst to his partner. In crude, short-hand Kaonese, it boiled down to _anything else you want to bring to the party?_

Jazz couldn't help but laugh, as inherent in those glyphs were those for "do you have any good ideas?"

OH did he have ideas. So many ideas. He was fairly sure that given time for a proper refuel and supply run he could keep the Decepticon leader entertained for CYCLES. His processor was all but queueing up pleasant interfacing variations. But really, there was no reason to brag when one could demonstrate.

Jazz grinned and leaned up slowly, using Megatron's weight and hold on his pelvis as a fulcrum to get his hands on that temptingly arched torso, sending back a burst that was affirmative in all sorts of promising ways.

It was more difficult than usual to reach into his subspace when every sensor in his body was concentrating on the delightful clench around his spike. Even more difficult was calling up the code for the particular thing he wanted, his subspace being a jumbled, overstuffed mass of randomness at the best of times. Eventually, though, what he held up for Megatron's inspection was a small, perfectly smooth, rounded oblong about the length of Jazz's hand. About twice the width of Jazz's own spike, one end was concave, the other convex, with just enough neck to it to allow a determined grip. It was, Jazz knew from experience, just the perfect size to fill all the spots in a heavyframe's valve that Jazz's own spike couldn't reach, aaaall the way up to the sensitive node and charge cluster at the back of the valve. A burst of the right frequency and the adapter purred gently against his fingers. Not overwhelmingly so, but just slightly more than the living vibration of a mech's systems.

Jazz tilted his head and wiggled the toy enticingly.

When the young mech had engaged his subspace, Megatron had half-expected a sheath to come out in Jazz’s hand. The adapter was an unusual choice, certainly some lateral thinking, and it had a _remote_ , which was all manner of promising. Jazz knew what he was doing with big frames - no doubt about it, and the Decepticon commander was looking forward to gleaning the _depth_ of that knowledge.

He ground his hips down with a pleased rumble, optics bright and vents blasting searing air in visible eddies around them. To keep Jazz’s spike a snug fit, he’d need to keep his valve calipers contracted - even whilst the adapter was being inserted. _That_ would be fun.

Dipping forward and down to nip at Jazz’s mouth, glossas meeting in flickers of electrical charge, Megatron raised his hips away from the mech’s spike. Pulling back from his partner’s clever lips, he grazed a denta across the line of his jaw to revisit that sensory horn. “Whatever works for you,” he murmured, tone low and dark and underscored with sultry glyphs for open willingness, “I’m game.”

Jazz grinned, letting it show in his glyphs how delighted he was to find someone as adventurous as he. "You certainly are." He cast a quick, evaluative glance down at them, calculating heights and angles and leverage. "First...mmmnngh...I'd suggest switching around. Gives me more leverage, you can lie back and let me do the work. Also because hey, new positions: always fun. Not the most adventurous option--"

He grinned and, just to be a teasing smartaft, sent a quick burst with sloppy but enthusiastic diagrams of a few of his "more adventurous" favorites. "--but I gotta admit, don't think I'm up for those after that workout."

He reached a hand up, tracing fondly down the side of Megatron's helm and dipping to that oh-so-grabbable collar fairing. "And that was so very much NOT a complaint." He rolled his hips, slowly, pleasure humming along every neural line. He traced the adapter, now vibrating softly, down a wide side seam and against the plating of a spread hip joint.

Megatron had huffed a laugh at the diagrams, and was grinning outright by the time he’d saved them for later use. Because _oh_ was Jazz getting at least one blatantly half-aft summons to a sham meeting in the near future. “Some of them look to require more stamina than either of us are capable of at the moment,” he agreed, shifting with and into the pleasant tingle the adapter was eliciting in his nodes. The anticipation surrounding the innocuous looking device was having a substantially more powerful effect.

Lifting his hips up from Jazz’s spike, he made a low sound at the withdrawal and the anticipation of having the solid feeling back with _more_. Rolling to one side off of the slim mech, Megatron propped himself up on his elbows and bent one leg to give his partner room. “But for now, I recommend that neither of us waste time.”

Jazz's optics dimmed, flagging THIS for high-priority recall. Because he was Pit-bound if he was going to not keep this memory file (of Megatron beneath him, grinning like a mech half his age, heavy, strong legs cocked open in invitation to the wet valve between) right where he could get at it.

Not waste time. Nineteen kliks. Jazz grinned. "Right. Yes, sir. One slightly assisted fragging, coming right up, sir...."

Jazz crawled forward, snugging himself close in and sliding the happily buzzing adapter along the inside of one spread thigh. He leaned up, one hand resting on Megatron's breastplate, letting the warlord's frame take his weight as he circled the adapter once around Megatron's valve before pressing it in. Jazz licked along Megatron's central chest seam, humming EM pulses against hidden sensors as his fingers spiraled the toy further in, sliding it along as many sensors as possible.

It would have been difficult to avoid most of the former gladiator’s sensor nodes from how tightly his valve was cycled down, the adapter meeting firm resistance that Jazz seemed all too happy to push through. The stretch was exquisite, Jazz’s mouth and glossa on his central seam a perfect counterpoint, and when the adapter hit the very top of his valve and vibrated pitch-perfect across already primed sensors, he saw static.

Megatron reached and grabbed the mech’s aft with a groan, leg bending to tuck about his thighs and force him closer. Jazz might have laughed, might have growled - he wasn’t paying much attention outside of the glorious slide of that solid spike back into his valve.

His helm tipped back at the intensity of it, backstrut curling in satisfaction as his calipers squeezed and twitched around the living metal and the vibrating toy lodged right up against several very sweet spots. A jolt of charge pulsed from the entirety of his valve, pooling in his hips and radiating out through his core systems, and Megatron drowned out his groan by putting teeth and glossa to the juncture of Jazz’s neck and shoulder mounts.

Jazz grinned, his field flaring with pleasure that was only half centered on the clench of Megatron's valve (though it was the bigger half, Jazz admitted). The other half was the sheer delight in making Megatron (Megatron!) react so. Jazz's processor could add two and two together well enough: that mod, plus the initial tension followed by the surprised response to Jazz's technique, plus whispers of gossip about the Syndicate's gladiator sponsorships...it didn't take dedicated analysis mods to figure it out. Jazz didn't dwell on it, wouldn't have dreamed of speaking of it, but it made him even more determined to make this as good as he possibly could.

It took more processing power than he thought he had to spare, but he set the adapter to vibrate on sharp movement (such as the tip of a spike hitting it). A few strokes and a bit of tweaking and the device was moving and buzzing and stroking deeper into Megatron than Jazz could reach, translating each thrust further in to the ceiling node buried in the top of his valve.

Jazz's grin at the static streaking Megatron's vocalizer was perhaps just a bit smug. Leaning forward into the press of Megatron's mouth, Jazz used the weight of the warlord's own chassis to brace him as he picked up the pace, EM and spike thrusting hard and hungry into Megatron's systems.

Megatron devoured his partner’s mouth with the same ferocity as his valve was being pounded into, tasting energon as one of them (no clue in the haze) was bitten. The adapter was incredible in conjunction with Jazz’s spike, working in perfect, delirium-inducing unity where the mech could have just set it to vibrate and left it whilst he thrust. That would have been lazy and easy, qualities that Jazz did not appear to take any stock with. The effort he was putting in for the ex-gladiator’s benefit as much, if not more than his own, was astounding.

Megatron curled one arm around the entirety of Jazz’s chassis, holding him firm and close with two talons lodged carefully into a side vent whilst his thumb flicked and teased over some exposed cabling. In his already long life, he’d simply had _no idea_ that it could feel this strut-liquefyingly good.

“Frag, Jazz,” he growled into the mech’s audio when their mouths finally, gasping, broke apart. It was a plea, profanity and an exaltation all in one. “Ahh, yes...”

"Mmm," Jazz purred, letting his arch into Megatron's servo alter his angle, alter his speed, so he was grinding in a completely different way for a few strokes. "So good," he murmured, nuzzling against the side of Megatron's helm. "Wanna make you feel so good...frag...."

Jazz arched, thrusting deep, loving the reaction it netted him all along Megatron's frame. He unfurled his field, letting it wash over and sync with Megatron's larger one, the two forces roiling until they settled into a steady pulse of ripe pleasure. "Wanna feel you...ah! Frag, wanna feel you overload again."

He leaned in, spike fully sheathed in Megatron's valve and GRINDING the tip of his spike against the seat of the adapter. "Like this...." A pulse of sheer affection and delighted HUNGER over their meshed fields. "Just like this...."

And oh, as sad as it was, Jazz could only hope that it was soon, too. Not for the steadily-clicking chronometer's sake, but for his OWN. Certain heavybuilds in the room might have the reserves for such activity at the drop of a bolt, but Jazz's build was not that energy efficient, and he'd not topped off before heading to the Nemesis. As it was he was going to have to find energon on the way home. Much more and Jazz was going to need an energon infusion to get off the SHIP.

Jazz’s gasped wants for not his own pleasure but the larger mech’s own brought Megatron to a different kind of edge than the pulse and grind in his valve, the devotion and genuine want for his pleasure in this act stunningly arousing all of its own. Then the saboteur ground into him, pressing the adapter firm and flush against his uppermost nodes, and he jerked with a white-opticed shout.

His overload was hard and long, the insistent adapter dragging out the peak of pleasure almost to the point of pain. Megatron clutched the smaller mech to him because he had to, helm bowed and denta bared into his slim neck as he trembled from strut to plate. He felt his valve clamp down hard, pinning the adapter ( _Primus!_ ) and accentuating the vibration to shake his calipers - now constricted about Jazz’s spike.

Jazz kept his optics on just long enough to see the leader of the Decepticons overloading on his spike, to SEE that white-opticked cry of pleasure, and then oh Primus he lost every bit of restraint he'd ever possessed as spike and valve and adapter combined into a tight, hot, slick, VIBRATING perfection that drove him completely, deliriously over the edge.

He buried his cry in Megatron's neckcables, his hands somewhere, clutching something hard enough to dent forged armor, then again when another overload--spurred on by the shuddering growl in his audial and the utter, helpless shiver of that powerful frame--chased the heels of the first. The twinned explosions of charge completely slagged him, motor circuits spasming, shaking him like a combiner with a turbowolf, then leaving him strutless, sensors registering nothing but the low-grade buzz of pleasure resonating through his neural net.

When the universe stopped living and breathing utter overloaded bliss, Jazz experimented with moving again, turning to press his helm against Megatron's. "Guh," he said, meaning, _We have about two kliks before someone knocks on that door, but I don't care if it's Primus himself, moving's not an option. You?_

Megatron dipped down to catch Jazz’s mouth again with a rumble of suppressed laughter, tracing up and down the intricate line of his backstruts. The adapter was still vibrating, sending shivering aftershocks out from the deepest nodes in his valve. It was... distracting.

“Exactly,” he affirmed against Jazz’s mouth, finally pinning down the frequency of the toy and shutting it off. Getting it back out would be easy enough once the mech’s spike was out - the mess of lube making for an easy slide after a squeeze of calipers.

The hazy dim edging the saboteur's optics did not escape his notice, and after Jazz withdrew from his body, he unsubspaced a ration cube and pressed it into his ( _immensely_ talented) claws. Then, with a dry smirk: “So Broadside doesn’t have to carry you off the ship.”

Jazz took the cube with only a SLIGHT bit of effort. He saluted Megatron with it and said, "Thanks. I WOULD look kinda funny draped over his shoulder. Wouldn't want folks to talk...."

He gulped down the fuel, attempting to settle his processor into something useful and a bit less obviously post-overload bliss. As amusing as the idea of Megatron's next appointment finding them still tangled and lube-streaked on the floor was, it would make a bad impression on someone he was perhaps going to work with. Jazz took stock of his own state of disreputableness and unsubspaced a mesh cloth to clean up.

Slag and fire, if this was what came of pledging himself to Megatron, he was kicking himself that he'd not done it VORN ago. He overrode the smug turn of his lips twice and it kept coming back. _No, bad Jazz...._

Jazz stood with a final flare-shake-settle of his plates. He felt loose and like he still had lubricants everywhere, but at least a cursory inspection would NOT immediately assume he'd been fragging. Probably.

The Decepticon commander had also produced a cloth from subspace, as well as a quick-evaporating cleansing gel for a more thorough job. Jazz might have been heading straight to the washracks, but Megatron had several breems of meetings and planning left.

Having continued to admire the finely-tuned form (that he now had crystal-clear mesh memory of) whilst Jazz cleaned himself of, Megatron tossed the cleansing vial up to him first and rested his hand across his knee. Kliks later, the adapter had been slid down to the cusp of his valve and withdrawn fully immediately thereafter. He set the micro-transformations to reset his internals to their normal configuration as he wiped down the worst of the mess off the toy. Then, with a smirk, he tossed that up into Jazz’s hand as well.

“I’m confident that you’ll fit into your new role well, Jazz,” he said mildly, as if he wasn’t clearing off a heavy slick of non-fluid and lubricant from his abdominal plates. The gel would take care of the rest.

Jazz caught the vial, then the toy with a grin. The adapter disappeared into his subspace (filed for quick access), and the vial he put to good use. His lips twitched at the remaining mess on the floor, but there wasn't much to be done about it. The smear was relatively small and ambiguous against the dark plating. Jazz's field danced with amusement at the two of them cleaning up like two overenthusiastic younglings who'd gotten carried away somewhere they shouldn't.

One klik. Perfect timing.

Jazz stretched luxuriously, and oh, gravity pulling on standing components made his valve ache pleasantly. Along with everything else, really. Fragging Megatron was evidently a whole-frame workout. Not that he would have expected anything less. "I will do my best to live up to your expectations, sir. Please let me know anything I can do to help."

Taking the vial back from Jazz, Megatronus finished making himself presentable and gave the patch on the deckplates a cursory wipe before subspacing the cloth. He rose with languid ease, struts exquisitely loose around a pleasant, satisfied ache.

Continuing as if the last breem hadn’t happened, and that they had in fact only been discussing Jazz’s duties as a more integral part of the Decepticon army, Megatronus returned to the desk and produced an encrypted data pad. He placed it in Jazz’s servos and suppressed a twitch of a smile at his new knowledge of how dexterous those digits were.

“Familiarise yourself with this - Soundwave will transmit the encryption codes shortly. Though, if you manage to hack into it before then, he will be _very_ interested to know.” Aware of the chronometer, the larger mech began walking Jazz towards the door. “You’ll be assigned quarters on the ship on the officer level, and you shan't be needing an escort on or off the Nemesis from this point on.”

Finally, as the door slid aside, Megatron took Jazz’s gauntlet in hand and sent a pulse of confident approval. “I’m certain you’ll find a fulfilling home here, Jazz. Quite certain.”

Jazz smiled, pleased, proud, and saluted. "Yes, sir. You won't be disappointed, sir."


End file.
